


File Corrupted

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, Dark-ish, Decima!John, Enemies to Lovers, Episode: s03e20 Death Benefit, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, How Do I Tag, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Root, Protective Shaw, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: “You were sent here to kill me.” A statement of fact, not a question, and he hopes against hope that the heartbreak his voice carries will sound like an accusation. He feels John flinch.





	File Corrupted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> *hides face* This... isn't exactly following any prompt, but I hope you'll like it anyway? *runs away*

“After this I think you owe me a bump in hazard pay, Finch.” the voice of Sameen Shaw comes through the earpiece after the softest click, quiet but noticeably more irritated than usual, even though Harold hears her pressing the words out between clenched teeth. Still playing her role, then, keeping her cover. Good. “I’m not sure if I’m still hearing that godawful screeching or if it just gave me a tinnitus.”

Despite himself – and his urge to defend the art of classical opera – he feels a hint of a smile tugging at his expression. “Ms Shaw, as I’ve stated numerous times, if you wish an increase of your salary...”

“I just gotta ask, yeah. But that’s not the point. Honestly, I don’t get how Geneva hasn’t had anything to say about this so far. Pretty sure listening to that should count as cruel and unusual punishment, and it’s definitely not a good working environment. I’m just saying, I think I deserve some compensation.”

Beside him, her arm daintily hooked into his, a beatific smile graces Root’s face. “And that, Sameen, is why you need to be exposed to a little more culture.”

“Culture my ass. And stop sabotaging me when I’m talking him into buying me a grenade launcher. Not cool.”

He watches Root’s smile widen and an all too familiar sense of exasperation comes over him, so he uses the time in which she takes a breath to side-eye her and interrupt before she can reply. “I’d greatly appreciate it if you could keep any commentary concerning Ms Shaw’s behind to when and where I am not privy to it. As for you, Ms Shaw, I do believe you already own a grenade launcher. Despite my misgivings, I might add. Now if we could please focus on the task at hand?”

Shaw is reluctantly mumbling her assent, though Harold is fairly certain he also hears her say something regarding the difference between various models of grenade launchers and the necessity of owning more than one under her breath, but he trusts her to focus regardless. Already, the tension their usual banter had broken for a moment is taking a hold of him again.

The task at hand is the observation of one Congressman McCourt, currently across the room from him and Root, his expression – which had indicated that his opinion on opera is most likely in line with Shaw’s – lightening by the minute as he makes small talk with various business executives also attending the after party. His wife, the one insisting on their presence, has left the room with another man and obvious intentions. More troubling is the presence of two – and perhaps more – Decima operatives in the room, though still not nearly as much as the choice laid out before Harold. He is all too aware of the small capsule of poison hidden in Root’s elegant little purse, of the handgun with a silencer strapped to Shaw’s thigh and hidden by her dress. Knows their opinion and that all that’s holding them back is his word alone and worst of all, there is a part of him that agrees.

Root tugs gently, subtly on his arm, trying to steer them towards the Congressman, smiles indulgently when he gives her a look and deliberately slows his pace, keeping their distance. He is here under his Partridge alias and McCourt is an opportunist. It would be all too easy to distract him while Root does what she excels at, what she has been doing for so long before she learned of the Machine.

“You’re going to have to make a decision eventually, Harry.”

"Six months ago, I would've already put a bullet in that guy's head. Since I’ve started working for you, Finch, I've kind of gotten used to saving people. But we've only been able to do that by trusting the Machine. And if it's saying that this guy's gotta go, well, I think we should still trust it." Shaw adds.

He sighs. “I am quite aware. But this is not a decision to be made lightly, there are consequences to consider.”

“There also are consequences to not acting. If Samaritan comes online, people _will_ die, and you and me and Sameen will be the first ones in line. Is one corrupt pawn worth it? Even with all the people we’d save by sacrificing him?”

Root’s eyes are pleading and as astute as she is, she must know that this is the very question plaguing him. Harold doesn’t so much as attempt to hide his troubled frown. “This is more than the sacrifice of one for the greater good, this is a line which we cannot return from once we cross it. And who is to say that McCourt will remain the only one? How can we be certain that this action would definitively stop Decima? At which point will one more life sacrificed for the greater good become one too many to-”

“Shit.” Shaw hisses over the earpiece and the surprise colouring the curse doesn’t bode well. “What the hell is the big guy doing here?”

Next to him, Root tenses, coming to a halt when Harold does. It takes her only a moment to recover and smoothly grasp a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, sliding her arm from Harold’s and half turning around towards him in pretence of conversation, while in reality spying across his shoulder, letting her hair fall forward to cover the side of her face. Something akin to sympathy crosses her expression when she speaks again.

“I guess it’d be too much to hope the runaway puppy is returning to his master?”

Old anger and protectiveness wells up in him at the disparaging comment, but he forces it back down. She is only trying to lighten his mood. They are standing close to the bar now, a bar with a top and sides made of polished black marble, and as he looks down, he catches the reflection of the man across the room. Too far away to see any detail, but the smooth, elegant movements, the long stride and the black suit are achingly familiar. And all of a sudden, Harold knows that everything has changed.

He swallows thickly, letting his eyes close for a moment while he tries to compose himself, knowing there won’t be any hiding the tremor in his voice. Opens them again and steps over the metaphorical line, beyond the point of no return, with something cold and heavy resting in his gut. “Ms Shaw? Please handle our situation with the Congressman. Discreetly, of course.”

Root stares at him in shock, and even Shaw’s voice sounds uncertain. “Harold?”

A bitter taste lingers in the back of his mouth and he knows it isn’t from anything he has consumed this evening. “I’m afraid we are no longer in any position to take risks or, for that matter, our time. If Decima sent _him_ , I gather he must have finally given them at least some information about us, meaning they now will not only be actively looking, they will have much better means to trace us. As many doubts as I may still have, we have run out of time.”

“On it.”

“Thank you.” He is strangely grateful when the only reply is the click of Shaw turning off her earpiece. The expression on Root’s face is now definitely one of sympathy, with no small amount of worry and his attempt at a reassuring smile must be nothing but a grimace at best.

“Please give us some privacy.” As expected, she looks ready to protest, but as much as he appreciates her protectiveness over him and would ordinarily hear her concerns, he can’t bring himself to in this matter, even if there was more time. As it stands, they will be spotted at any moment now. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be alright. And I trust you will have my back, Root.”

She hesitates for a moment before giving him another indulgent smile, one that does nothing to dampen the worry in her large brown eyes, not even with the hint of fondness creeping into it, not even when it turns genuinely pleased. He does trust her, as much as he can bring himself to trust anyone these days. Since John left them – left _him_ – behind, he doesn’t think he will ever be able to truly trust again, despite the blame lying firm and heavy on his own shoulders.

“Anything for you, Harry.” Root says with a sigh, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek, not-quite-winking when she turns around and slips into the gossiping crowd, soon out of his sight but he knows he won’t be out of hers; and not a moment too soon.

His eyes return to the reflection on the marble, in and out of sight behind the other people, long stride soon gaining purpose, the figure weaving through the crowd, crossing the room towards him. There are only a few paces left between them when Harold finally forces himself to turn around and lay eyes on the man he hasn’t seen in nearly a year now.

Neither the melancholy and longing, nor the sense of betrayal washing over him is a surprise, even if he knows that the latter is if not outright unfair, at the very least mutual. It hadn’t been John who had kept the secret that had torn them apart, one Harold should have entrusted to him and in turn he had breached John’s trust when he hadn’t. The bitterness and regret is even more expected.

No, what does surprise him is the joy and relief seeing him causes in a particularly stupid part of his heart, but even that not nearly as much as the sense of _potential_ that threatens to leave him breathless. A potential that had simmered between them for so long, something unspoken, nothing more than lingering glances and brushes of hands, and the so very rare instances after cases involving close calls, moments of shared breaths and their lips finding each other in desperation and need of reassurance. Never addressed, nothing but a hypothetical, but undeniably existent nonetheless.

“Hey Harold.” John greets him quietly, with the softest, barely-there smile and it’s all Harold can do not to reach for him, not to reassure himself by touch that the other is here. For a moment, his own voice deserts him as he fervently wishes for John to keep speaking, so he can listen to the low, even tone he has missed more than he apparently was consciously aware of.

When he finally finds it again, his voice is bone dry. “Am I correct in assuming it isn’t a coincidence that you’re here?”

“Heard you were in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d stop by.” John’s smile widens infinitesimally, into something resembling wry amusement and though he keeps his voice forcibly light, Harold can hear the tension in it. It makes him wonder if he still knows him that well, or if John merely isn’t putting much effort into his act.

There is something different about him, something that seems _off_ and Harold lets his eyes roam freely, taking in the suit – imperfectly tailored but still of high quality –, the posture that is the exact same as he knows it, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his lips, the grey in his hair, of which there is a little more now than when he’d last seen him, but he knows this isn’t what bothers him. It’s not until he makes himself meet John’s gaze that he sees it.

John Reese’ eyes have always truly been a window to his soul and Harold realises that this isn’t the John Reese who told him he couldn’t work with someone he didn’t trust. It isn’t the John Reese he found hiding deep in a bottle, wasting away on the streets, and it’s not even the one he watched sparing Daniel Casey’s life. No, standing before him is the creation of Kara Stanton and Mark Snow – and now presumably John Greer and Decima Technologies – the John Reese who became a weapon, torturing and taking lives without question when ordered to do so, the soul laid bare in those eyes tarnished and hidden in shadows.

Harold thinks he probably ought to question his own sanity when instead of the nervousness or fear that he should, all he does feel is regret and heartbreak, along with the intense desire to break this man and force his soul into a light Harold isn’t sure he can still provide. Not after the order, hidden as it might have been, he just issued to Shaw.

“I’m sorry.” The words slip out without his conscious permission and it surprises him how raw his voice sounds. “I am so sorry, John. I should have told you about my involvement with the laptop that lead to your mission in Ordos from the beginning. I should have trusted you to...”

John’s smile slips away, leaving behind something vaguely unhappy. “It’s okay, Harold. I get why you didn’t and I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left.” He can’t quite decide if the remorse he hears so plainly is genuine or not, but he knows the nervous flicker of John’s gaze towards the floor before it finds his again most certainly isn’t. Neither is the swallow before he continues. “I just… Can we talk?”

John motions towards where they obviously both know the back door is located and Harold is glad Shaw turned her earpiece off – he can imagine the string of profanities she’d mutter all too well and it’s quite enough to feel Root’s stare from wherever she might be as he nods. “Of course.”

For a moment that can only be attributed to temporary insanity, John’s relieved smile seems entirely worth it.

“Though I don’t suppose I have much of a choice, seeing as several of your _new colleagues_ are present in this fine establishment.” slips out then, harsher and much more bitter than intended, and he almost wishes he could take the words back when John’s smile fades, only to return as a waxen shadow, a mask that doesn’t hide the pain in his eyes. At least not from Harold.

“None Shaw couldn’t take out before they’d even get to us.” The lightness in his voice it fake, but the respect – pride, almost – in it isn’t. Something barely healed cracks in Harold’s heart at the reminder of more potential wasted. John had taken to Shaw almost like an older brother, and Harold had hoped they both would benefit from their budding friendship, but this too had faded out like whatever unnamed thing had been between himself and John. All because of his paranoid need for secrecy, because of him withholding well-earned trust. Regret leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but this is still a better thought than speculating where Shaw might be in this moment, whether she is already carrying out his orders. The bitterness grows more pungent.

With a sigh, Harold forces the shards of his heart and morality back together, gathering them behind a calmer mask he knows John won’t be able to read. Not anymore. He gestures to John that he is ready to leave.

There is only a few more seconds’ hesitation before they turn towards the back, John falling into step with him as easy and naturally as he always had. Harold can almost let himself imagine that they are here on this case together, that everything is as it had once been.

As they make their way through the crowd, John’s hand hesitatingly finds its past place on Harold’s back and there is no resisting the instinct to lean into the touch. His heart aches with how much he has missed this. He feels detached from the world around him, like in a trance as they cross the room. He lets his gaze wander, absentmindedly taking in the absence of Shaw and Congressman McCourt, and he doesn’t see Root either, although he thinks he can still feel her glare and knows she will follow them outside. His attention however doesn’t stray from the point of contact with the man beside him.

And then they leave, cross the hallway with the doors towards the restrooms to the right, towards the door at the end of it. John’s long, elegant fingers wrap around the handle, press it down with quite some force, but the door itself swings open without a sound. Washington D.C.’s night air embraces them, the sky overhead not quite dark, the air itself not quite clean, but also not as polluted as New York’s, neither with smog nor with light. The door clicks shut. There is a neon light at the end of the alleyway they’ve stepped out into. It flickers in irregular intervals.

John turns towards him, hand still lingering just the way it always used to and time hangs suspended between them, not dissimilar to the condensation of their breaths and something shifts. From one moment to the next, the potential rushes back in, every thing that once could have become seems deceptively close, within reach again.

He recognises the look in John’s expressive eyes as the one he had always regarded him with after cases that required Harold to go out into the field and had ended with him in immediate danger. It occurs to him that he _is_ in danger now, as much as his very instincts protest the mere notion that John means anything other than safety, but Root isn’t here yet and won’t be for at least a few seconds longer.

That is the last thought he has, before John closes the distance between them, leaves him with the cold brick wall pressing into his back and a warm, solid, familiar body plastered to his front, leaves him with only just enough time to register the small, almost wounded noise John makes, before hot lips cover his own. Harold can’t help his small gasp and although John immediately utilises that opportunity to deepen the kiss, it feels like his first true breath of air in almost a year, since John left.

John’s hand is cupping his neck, covering the most vulnerable part of his body, supporting it and keeping Harold from aggravating the pain, while Harold’s own hands find their usual places as well, one buried in John’s oh-so-soft hair, the other sliding around his waist. It bumps into John’s shoulder holster, registering with bitterness and an utter lack of surprise that there is a silencer attached to his gun.

By the time they tear themselves away – even if it’s merely inches – they’re both breathing raggedly, Harold can feel his glasses sitting slightly askew. His heart breaks again when he takes in the picture John makes, the hint of light filtering back into his eyes, showing a more broken semblance of the man that left Harold, looking desolate and lost.

“I missed you.” he whispers roughly before Harold can say anything, can reassure him. “Oh god, I missed you. I shouldn’t have left. I’m sorry.” A much softer kiss is pressed to his lips. “I’m so sorry.” And another one, and another, in between whispered apologies, each quieter and more broken than the last, until Harold lets his hand slide from his hair, lets it caress features he could recognise blind and cups his jaw.

“You were sent here to kill me.” A statement of fact, not a question, and he hopes against hope that the heartbreak his voice carries will sound like an accusation. He feels John flinch, doesn’t need an answer even as John nods.

“Yes.”

The forlornness still lingers in John’s eyes and as much as a part of him wants to ask if John is going to, a larger part is afraid of the answer. Instead, he simply kisses him again, passionate and then turning soft as he feels John’s dry sob against him, feels the hand not protecting his damaged neck come up to caress his cheek. He lets the kiss linger until the lack of oxygen forces them apart again, leaving him absentmindedly caressing John’s cheek with his thumb.

He never hears high-heeled steps approaching, neither of them does, and he can only stare in surprise when a hand with dark nail polish appears above John’s shoulder and sinks the needle of a syringe into John’s neck and the larger body falls like a marionette with its strings cut almost as soon as the plunger is pushed.

John sinks to the ground, leaving the way free for Root’s accusing glare, but whatever she finds when she looks at him makes the glare soften all too soon. “Oh Harry.” she sighs, far too understanding for his comfort, then turns away, crouching down to heave John’s body onto his side, pulling a zip tie out of her purse and John’s arms over his back, pulling the zip tie tight around his wrists until it visibly cuts into his skin.

It’s only then that Harold manages to pull himself out of his stupor, crouching down as well as quickly as his left side allows, reaching out for John’s pulse point.

“He’s fine. He might have something of a headache when he comes to in about twelve hours, but he’s fine.” she admonishes him. Not that he deserves any less.

“Thank you.” he murmurs sheepishly while he gently brushes John’s jacket aside to take the gun from his holster, handing it to Root who takes it quietly, with nothing more than a reproachful look. One she gives him with each weapon he pulls from John’s person. The second gun strapped to his ankle, the knife from his other one, the taser on his belt…

He stands back up just as a car pulls into the alleyway, revving the engine before turning it off, the door opens and Shaw’s high heels click on the asphalt, eyes blazing. “What the hell, Finch? Why’d you do something as stupid as...”

She breaks off when Root places her hand on her shoulder. “Save the lecture, Sam, he needs a moment. Come give me a hand getting the big lug onto the back seat.”

“Back seat? Really? Not in the trunk? ‘cause I think he deserves the trunk after what he put Finch through.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Ms Shaw, but the back seat will suffice.” He almost regrets speaking when her angry glare is immediately directed at him once more and she shrugs Root’s hand off, stalking towards him. Every so often, he is reminded of just how intimidating she can be despite her height.

“You. We’re still having that conversation.”

“Yes, I admit, this is a lecture I may deserve. And I suppose you will only be placated by the acquisition of yet another grenade launcher?”

A smirk flickers over her face, but in the end she only narrows her eyes in the type of annoyance he has learned to recognise as her form of concern. “We’ll talk about that later.” With that, she turns back towards the car, opening the back door before grabbing hold of John’s arm, dragging him ungently towards the car with Root’s assistance.

Root wordlessly slips into the front passenger seat, leaving Harold to climb in the back, next to John’s unconscious form. He has barely closed his seat belt when Shaw pulls out of the alley into D.C.’s streets that are almost as busy at night as New York’s. Homeward bound. Carefully, he pulls John’s head to rest in his lap, studying the familiar lines of his face he hasn’t seen in too long, the still slightly kiss-reddened lips.

“What’re we gonna do with him?” Shaw asks. “Un-brainwash him from whatever crap Decima fed him?”

“Maybe we could just put him into that nice little corner of the library. Give him a pretty little ankle bracelet like you gave me, Harold, until we can think of something better. Or maybe the Machine will have a suggestion for us.”

Harold hesitates, feeling just as lost as John had looked, suddenly reminded of everything that changed today and unwilling to let himself think about anything too closely just yet. “It’s as good an interim solution as any.” he agrees with Root’s suggestion, looking up just long enough to catch her gaze in the rear-view mirror and see her nod, before returning his eyes to John, caressing his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it? Comments are the light of my life :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Things Have Changed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120374) by [oddgit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddgit/pseuds/oddgit)




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